


Longing (With Occasional Small Lightnings)

by beetle



Series: The Culladaar and Doribull Romance Series No One Asked For (But You’re Getting It Anyway): [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badly, Banter, Chess, Dorian Cheats at Chess, Dragon Age Quest: Before the Dawn, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Inquisitor Backstory, Kaaras IS a ginger, Kaaras is NOT a Virgin!, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Adaar/Dorian Pavus UST, Male Adaar/Dorian Pavus Unrequited, Mentions of Inquisitor's Tal-Vashoth Parents, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Before the Dawn, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Raleigh Samson - Freeform, Red Templars, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 12:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13524471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar battles demons and darkspawn for purpose and profit, and he seals Fade-Rifts in his sleep. He’s a formidable battlemage and principled leader. He gives most of his earned or acquired loot away to children and beggars. He’s never lost a chess game in his adult life and can easily keep up with even Dorian Pavus’ banter and snark. He’sseven-ish feet tall, only a bit gangly, relatively non-hideous—if one happens to preferliberallyfreckled and unapologeticallygingerVashoth Qunari—and can involuntarily conduct small quantities of arcane lightning between his copper-plated horns without even trying.He’s also continually saving the world from millennia of its bewildering mistakes. He isnoteasily or ever cowed. So . . . why does the idea of confessing his powerful attraction and deepening feelings for the commander of the Inquisition’s military—or, Maker forbid, confessing themtothe commander—frighten the bloody horns off him? Why is he increasingly certain that he’ll never be worthyenough?





	Longing (With Occasional Small Lightnings)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thunderthighs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderthighs/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Set pre-“Before the Dawn” quest by several days. AU in that Cullen Rutherford is bisexual. Humor, light angst, feels, flirting, banter, and chess. More than one love confession. Pre-main pairing, but mentions of other pairings, requited and not. Vague spoilers. Title inspired by Jonathan Lethem’s wonderfully surreal _Gun With Occasional Music_.
> 
> Consider this the start of that Doribull I promised you forever-ago, Blue_J. _Doribull With More-Than-Occasional Culladaar_ , if you like :-)

“You always look like the cat that got the canary, lately. One wonders why that is,” Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar mused innocently as Dorian Pavus attempted to take—without coming close—their latest chess match-up. They were, as was frequent when traveling, battling, and other duties permitted, ensconced in one of the more secluded stone pavilions of Skyhold’s extensive and lush gardens.

 

The late afternoon air was only slightly chilly with the approach of a fine and brisk fall, the westering of the sun blocked by the bulk of the castle. The leafy profusion that seemed to shade, carpet, and engulf the miniature folly where the two mages waged their chess-battles was lit only by indirect, green-gold light, and nearly soundless but for the shuttling of wooden pieces and sporadic shit-talking.

 

“ _Does_ one wonder, indeed? How shamefully _indecorous_ of that one! And indiscreet!” the Tevinter mage tutted, then pouted down at the board as if that might make his imminent defeat less of a likelihood.

 

It wouldn’t, of course, but his determination and concentration _could_ end up setting the board and pieces a-fire, resulting in yet another draw. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time _that_ had happened and probably wouldn’t be the last. Though Kaaras, himself, had more than once set a rime of frost forming on the board and pieces when faced with _his own_ close-call near-defeats. So, he really hadn’t the right to cast stones at Dorian.

 

But Kaaras’ magic manifesting from subconscious will—and a _slight_ disturbance of his iron-rigid control—was never the case when he played against Dorian Pavus. It was, however, quite an irritatingly common outcome when Kaaras played against Cullen Rutherford.

 

Just thinking of the Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces—imagining the way Cullen’s grave and solemn face relaxed just a touch when he smiled his tiny, confident smile, whilst plotting and making his devastating, nearly game-taking moves—made Kaaras flush, and jolted him right out of his usual strategic focus.

 

Still, he was savvy enough to catch Dorian cheating, as ever. But barely, such was the intensity of his . . . distraction. The merest memory of Cullen’s noble, earnest face—of the cheerful-gold of his hair, the spare and rare curve of his mouth, and the tawny glint of his eyes—made Kaaras’ heart sigh and tremble in triumph _and_ defeat.

 

He honestly couldn’t even tell where one feeling began and the other ended . . . or even if they were still separate and opposing states, anymore.

 

“Now, now, _Serah_ Pavus. None of that, please-and-thank-you,” Karaas chided his most frequent challenger, with both fondness and exasperation. Though it was more routine nitpicking than actual dissatisfaction, as Kaaras was still far too busy swallowing around a persistent lump that was probably his greedy, overactive heart.

 

Dorian scoffed and rolled his eyes, that pout becoming more practiced and put-on. “None of _what_ , my dear Inquisitor Adaar? I’m certain I haven’t any idea to what you’re referring. . . .”

 

Kaaras rolled his eyes at Dorian’s wide-eyed, typically-overdone attempt at virtuousness. He almost felt sorry for his closest friend. Not almost _enough_ to throw the match, perish the thought, but perhaps just enough not to be too much of an arrogant and annoying little shit when the moment of his assured victory was at hand.

 

Dorian’s generally preoccupied and flustered—yet uncommonly content, at times—state of mind, these days, made Kaaras’ already frequent triumphs practically inevitable. Thus, he was prepared to be a gracious winner. . . .

 

. . . but not if Dorian was going to cheat so blatantly.

 

“You . . . are the _worst_ cheat, Dorian. _Literally_ the worst at cheating.” Kaaras shook his head, half-amused and half-awed. “Why do you even bother? We both know that even if I didn’t catch you at it, I’d still win by a handy margin.”

 

Dorian had the gall to look wounded, one graceful hand fluttering dramatically to the center of his chest, as if he was both startled and pained.

 

“A Pavus _never_ cheats, you ginger-maned lout! He doesn’t have to.” Dorian sniffed and made a dismissive gesture with his temporarily idle hand. Kaaras’ brows lifted, both at Dorian’s theatrics and Dorian’s ploy to rout him with a poorly-used castle. After a few moments to study the board and plot ahead a little—just enough to bruise a bit of ego, but not enough to annihilate a friendship—Kaaras considered responding with some routing of his own, using his chevalier. A bold move, it would force Dorian into sacrificing the castle on his next turn. Or sacrificing the game entirely.

 

“That's possibly true, I’ll grant you." Kaaras hummed, then went on the offensive, garnering either the opposing castle or king, depending on Dorian's mood and perseverance. "But . . . you’re only _half_ -Pavus, as far as I know. Although, if that’s not the case, feel free to never enlighten me regarding the details of your parentage.”

 

He grinned as Dorian gaped at the board—clearly spotting his peril—then groaned. The other mage wasn’t much of a strategist when it came to chess, but he wasn’t exactly slow on the uptake, either. He was incisive, but also instinctive and impetuous, thus any progress made was also hampered by his rush to _move pieces_. Not that _Kaaras_ was in any sort of rush to tell him so.

 

“Ugh!” Dorian glowered at the board, then at Kaaras, then back at the board. “I’ll have you know, I’m also a Thalrassian. Though, one wouldn’t know it to watch me play, recently! If my mother could see me losing so badly, she’d disown me, then have one of the servants wash my mouth out with soap!”

 

Kaaras blinked and frowned. “Right. _Soap_. Because. . . ?”

 

“Oh, it was a blanket discipline for any minor infraction of mine, until I was eight, or so. I swore _once_ while being presented to the Archon at an informal gathering when I was four, and after that—soap, soap, soap! Every time I pouted or sulked or . . . accidentally set my nurse’s crinolines on fire! So unfair!” Dorian huffed and did, indeed, pout at Kaaras. Then at the board. Then back at Kaaras, who laughed and held up his hands in placation that was only half-jesting.

 

“Well, I’m not about to chase you down for a . . . _soaping_ , Dorian, should you set my clothing on fire. So, you’d get away with it and I’d be out part of an outfit. The stuff of tragedies, that. But I suppose forewarned _is_ forearmed.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kaaras,” Dorian reprimanded, wiggle-waggling his elegant fingers over his castle as if there was even a choice left, with his king in check. Though, he was likely also plotting up some other obvious way to cheat. “You’re a peer _and_ my dearest friend in the world! I’d never accidentally set you on fire!”

 

“Ah. Only on-purpose, then?”

 

“Naturally.” Dorian sketched a shallow, but jaunty bow over the board and Kaaras snorted.

 

It wasn’t even five minutes later—but long enough for Dorian’s rescued king to be in check, once more, to the swearing mage’s dismay—when a spritely, speedy young message-runner dashed ‘round the western bend of one of Skyhold’s many blind arcades. She sprinted down the stone walkway sheltered by said arcade, clearly focused on the way ahead. Her peachy, peaky face was a blur below fine, dark, mop-top hair and her feet barely seemed to touch stone.

 

Kaaras smiled a little as he recognized one of Cullen Rutherford’s most trusted and preferred runners, with a no-doubt-sealed message in hand.

 

She glanced over at Kaaras and Dorian when the former waved a hailing hand, then didn’t stop or even slow, merely course-corrected. She dashed out of the arcade by leaping through one of the arches, over its raised threshold, and made for the two chess-playing mages.

 

“You’re saved by the _belle_ ,” Kaaras murmured to Dorian. He looked up, blinking, then followed Kaaras’ nod just as the runner, Yvette, slowed to a stop a polite distance away, one foot on the shallow bottom step of the pavilion. Her breathing was only slightly elevated, though if she’d run all the way from _Cullen’s_ office, she’d certainly stretched her legs, indeed. “Hullo, Yvie.”

 

“’Lo, Inquisitor Adaar!” the tall, long-legged girl exclaimed. She bowed neatly, with both arms gracefully, graciously spread in the Orlesian way that was reserved for those who were both well-respected and well-liked. As always, Kaaras returned it exactly, sitting though he was, and Yvette grinned. Her teeth were prominent and perfect, with a just-noticeable gap between the front two that Kaaras found incredibly winsome. Sometimes, when she spoke quickly, Yvette whistled a little. “I ‘ave a message from the Commander for you! ‘E says it’s _top priority_!”

 

Kaaras exchanged a look with Dorian, who shrugged and affected genteel resignation. “Well, at least it’s not _urgent_. I, for one, would rather not have to dash out of Skyhold at some unholy hour—yet again—to slaughter . . . whatever needs slaughtering, this time.”

 

“Let’s hope that this particular _top priority_ is slaughter-lite, then,” Kaaras said, mildly and without much hope. He accepted the message from Yvette, who bounced and beamed, then settled a bit to wait for a reply from Kaaras, should there be any.

 

He broke Cullen’s official wax seal with one finger, narrowly avoiding a parchment-cut, and unfolded the single page. Cullen’s handwriting—blocky, deeply-graven, and terribly economical—marched stoically across the creased slip, straight-to-the-point, as ever.

 

**_*~Inquisitor: We tracked Samson's remaining red templars escorting a supply caravan to a hidden location in the wilderness. It could be his headquarters. I expect verification before the hour is over; I've already begun preparing a squadron of soldiers to accompany us.  Allow me to brief you in person when your duties permit.  Commander Cullen~_ **

 

“Uh-oh. That face can’t bode well.”

 

When Kaaras looked up at Dorian, the other mage was giving him an unusually pained and worried look. “What?”

 

“You’re . . . making that glower-y, rather fearsome _Qunari_ -face. The one you were wearing when you dropped a mountain on Corypheus, _et al_ , at Haven. The one you _always_ wear when awful people are about to die by your hand . . . awfully,” Dorian added, his perfectly-groomed eyebrows lifting in question. His gaze ticked up to Kaaras’ curling, copper-plated horns and he snorted a little. “And there’s arcane energy crackling between your horns.”

 

“There is _not_ , you arse!” Kaaras exclaimed, blushing and pointedly not reaching up to check his horns for any such phenomena. “Honestly, Dorian!”

 

“Yvette, my lively and fleet-footed gazelle, did you happen to see the small, ice-blue lightning arcing between the Inquisitor’s horns a few moments ago?” Dorian asked, practically oozing charm as he turned to the lanky runner.

 

“Don’t drag the poor girl into your nonsense, you louche reprobate!” Kaaras chastised, and would’ve said more, but Yvette cleared her throat. When Kaaras looked back at her, her elfy-huge, dark eyes widened, and she bit her lip as her gaze ticked down from Kaaras’ horns to his face. Her toothy grin was big and apologetic.

 

“Er . . . maybe just a _few_ small lightnings, Inquisitor?” Her gaze flicked to Kaaras’ horns again and she tilted her head a bit. “Ooh! But they’re gone, now! No more small lightnings on your horns! Huzzah!”

 

Kaaras sighed and hung his head, careful not to accidentally gore Yvette as he shook it. He supposed that he was lucky that the . . . ‘small lightnings’ hadn’t set his bloody face on fire. “Yes, huzzah, indeed.”

 

“Huzzah, _for the moment_ , anyway! You’re extremely fortunate these arcane discharges haven’t yet lit that coppery ponytail of yours _ablaze_! That bloody plating—while complementary to your horns and hair—is _frightfully_ good at conducting all sorts of energy, I’d wager,” Dorian theorized, chipper and dour at once, and eyeing Kaaras’ horns once more. “You Vashoth are at least as mystifying as your Qun-addled kin when it comes to your choices of adornment! I suppose, then, it’s a racial quirk, rather than a societal one. . . .”

 

“ _Dorian_.” Kaaras reached up with his free hand as if to conceal his horns, then realized the futility of such, even when the covering hand was as large as his own. So, he glared even harder at Dorian, who smirked and shrugged.

 

“Don’t kill the messengers, as the saying goes,” he drawled, but his lips were twitching with repressed laughter. “Especially when the messengers are as _gorgeous_ as Yvette and myself. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

 

Yvette’s dark brows were waggling and her wide mouth obviously fighting a grin of ridiculous proportions. “I would never even _theenk_ to disagree with a mage as worldly and knowledgeable as you, _Serah_ Pavus!”

 

“Beauty _and_ wisdom? You are a _rare_ pleasure, child!” Dorian said with his most ingratiating sincerity. He leaned over to take Yvette’s hand, half-bowed over it, and kissed it lightly, as was the Orlesian custom. Yvette snickered and giggled, her peachy-fair complexion turning a fetching pink.

 

Kaaras rolled his eyes and shook his head again, about to direct something snarky and unamused Dorian’s way . . . then he frowned as he recalled the message in his hand.

 

Samson. Bloody _Samson_.

 

And Cullen’s missive, of course, was all about apprehending the leader of the Red Templars, and nothing about his feelings and thoughts on the matter. Nothing about how heavily and uncomfortably Cullen’s shared history with Raleigh Samson sat on those strong, staid shoulders. Nothing about the horrors and losses that’d characterized Cullen’s time as Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain, and the extremes to which he’d been forced by circumstance. And by the corruption of the holy order to which he’d once dedicated his entire life. . . .

 

Of course not. None of _that_. Not in the body of an official message to his superior, no. The briefing, perhaps, might tell a more expanded tale, but only if _Kaaras_ bothered about such a personal, “nonessential” matter. If he persisted and brow-beat the commander of his military force to unclench, and admit he wasn’t an emotionless golem made only for strategy and war.

 

Kaaras would _never_ let it be said that _Inquisitor Adaar, Herald of Andraste_ hadn’t made time for the important things in his life. And the wellbeing of Commander Cullen Rutherford was easily one of _the most_ important things—professional and personal—in Kaaras’ busy, surprising life these days.

 

And Cullen, himself, was certainly one of _the most_ surprising _happenings_ in Kaaras’ surprising and eventful life. Though, possibly only to Kaaras. He supposed that his father would merely smile his crooked, wry smile, mumble something along the lines of: “A _bas Saarebas_ drawn by affection to a conflicted, burnt-out ex- _Arvaarad_ . . . how original of you, Aed.”

__

 

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But his intense, troubled grey-green eyes would be distant and somehow devastated. His gaze would be fixated—as ever it had been—not on his only son, but on the long-dead wife his only son had taken after in nearly every _apparent_ aspect, from manner to magic.

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Caught up suddenly in memory and regret, frustration and loss, Kaaras didn’t even realize he’d already risen—and half-crumpled the message in his hand—until Dorian cleared his throat. Kaaras blinked down from his height of six-foot-nine, at the still-seated mage, then at the young messenger. Yvette’s eyes were nearly the size of platters in her peaky-young face—not from fear, but from her unhidden delight in all tall-things.

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(Kaaras was probably the tall _est_ tall-thing in Yvette's world that counted as an actual person, and not a manmade structure or feature of the landscape.)

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“Inquisitor?” the young runner asked, curious and a bit awed, but clearly not intimidated by him. Kaaras—used to a lifetime of quite the opposite from most people, even and especially other Qunari who _weren’t_ Vashoth . . . and some who were—quirked a crooked, but probably not convincing grin at her and winked.

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“Thank you so much for your speed and dedication in delivering the Commander’s message. As ever, Yvie.” Kaaras reached out, neither fast nor slow, and plucked a half-sovereign from “behind” the elven girl’s long ear. Her big, dark eyes widened, and he flipped the coin at her. Quick as a thought, she caught it, giggling. Kaaras’ smile became far more genuine in the face of her sweetness and appreciation. “Run along, then, and I’ll take my own reply to the Commander.”

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“Yes, Your ‘Oliness! Thank you, Inquisitor!” Yvette gushed, bounced, then took off back the way she’d come—out of the garden and back down the stone arcade—as fleet as any deer, all legs and arms.

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From Kaaras’ right, Dorian snorted and sighed—and probably made an illegal move in their game, counting on Kaaras’ divided attention to safeguard his cheating. “Really, _serah_ , by the time all this Breach-absurdity is over, you won’t have a penny to your name! You’ll have given it all away to big-eyed waifs and random beggars we meet during our travels!”

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Kaaras grunted, not really hearing what had been said. He’d gone back to staring at Cullen’s semi-crumpled missive, noting the few lines that were a bit shakily rendered. As if Cullen’s hand had been shivering-cold when he’d written the message, despite the fact that fall had barely settled in. . . .

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“Ah, I see, my dear Inquisitor, that duty once more interferes with the kinder pleasures of life. Such as mopping the floor with a chess-rival.” When Kaaras blinked over at Dorian, the other mage was looking far too innocent—especially considering that, yes, several key pieces were not where Kaaras remembered them being before—and relaxed. Far too smug. “Shall I take it, then, that this game is a draw?”

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Kaaras rolled his eyes. “You may, indeed, take it that way, _serah_ , as I’ve no time to both call out all your little cheat-y moves _and_ make quick work of you. A draw, it shall have to be.”

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“ _Cheat-y moves_? _I_?” Dorian’s gasp was dramatic and wounded yet again, and the graceful hand once more flung to his chest just a trifle overdone. “Well! I _never_!”

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“Hmm. Not according to what _I’ve_ heard around Skyhold and environs.” Kaaras huffed and smirked in the face of Dorian’s expected protests and scenery-chewing, even though his mind and heart were rather far hence. On the other side of Skyhold, in fact, pacing the length of Cullen’s office . . . as, no doubt, was Cullen. . . .

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“. . . catty little calumnies and scandalous slanders are quite unbecoming of one who’s both a major religious and secular leader in Southern Thedas, you know? And I, quite frankly, am . . . suddenly certain that you’re not listening to me at all and are about to go flying to our dear Commander’s stalwart side. Judging by that distraught and heartbroken look on your face,” Dorian added, sighing. Kaaras blinked and blushed, then looked down at the altered chess game once more.

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“I . . . I have no idea what you m-mean.”

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“Right! Of course not! Let’s _do_ pretend you’re not as transparent as you are bloody tall, and that there aren’t more, er, _small lightnings_ arcing between those bloody safety-hazard horns of yours at this very moment, shall we? And that such phenomena _don’t_ most frequently occur when you’re in knots regarding a certain Commander of the Inquisition’s military branch?” Dorian’s brows lifted in pointed question when Kaaras’ missive-free hand flew up to said horns. A moment later, Kaaras yelped and yanked his hand away, scowling at the scorched tips of his first and second fingers. Dorian rolled his eyes as Kaaras jammed the two injured fingertips in his mouth, but his smile was fond. “I sometimes forget how young you still are, Inquisitor.”

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“Only three years younger than _you_ , oh, ancient one. And I’ve a birthday coming up near the end of autumn, so it’s actually closer to _two_ years. Prat,” Kaaras mumbled around his fingers, squinting at Dorian, who laughed.

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“Yes, you certainly exemplify a maturity and poise far beyond your twenty-eight years, my dear Vashoth apostate!” Leaning back in his chair once more, Dorian sighed again. “You know, you really ought to make your move, one of these days, Kaaras. Soon, in fact. You’ll die of old age or the Apocalypse if you wait for Cullen to make his.”

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Withdrawing his spitty-burnt fingertips, Kaaras dug up his best glower. Of course, Dorian remained unruffled and seemed even more amused in the face of it. “This is yet another thing we have in common, my friend: Neither of us knows what the bloody hell you’re on about.”

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“ _Soon_ , Kaaras,” Dorian repeated, gone suddenly solemn, his smile leaning more toward grimace than grin. “Preferably _before_ Corypheus destroys the world. It would be tragic, indeed, for you and the Commander to die frustrated, eternally-pining virgins!”

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“I’m _not_ a virgin!” Kaaras exclaimed, offended and rather louder than he meant to. The statement seemed to echo off the stone of the pavilion and the castle walls, into the late afternoon-sky. Blanching, Kaaras then blushed again, deeper than ever. Dorian rolled his eyes once more.

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“Perhaps you’re not a virgin in comparison to our handsome and pious Commander, but certainly in comparison to, say, _me_ , trailblazer and connoisseur that I am.” Dorian took a moment to affect humility and conceit simultaneously—somehow—then shrugged as he gave Kaaras a wistful once over. “Striking and strapping as _you_ are, I’d have happily given you some, hmm, _no-strings, practical experience_ that would have served you well, indeed. Anything for _you_ , as your dearest and most _concerned_ friend.” That wistfulness flickered into something that could have been more accurately termed _wanton_. Or, perhaps, _wicked_. “If you hadn’t been so obviously and wholly stuck on Cullen Rutherford from day one, that is! The way you yearn at that man should be illegal! The way he smolders right back probably already is! Alas, Dorian Pavus knows better than to step between _that_ sort of naïve, storybook-sentimental exclusivity!”

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“I—Cullen—we— _shut up_ , Dorian!” Kaaras’ face was burning, and he could actually hear the mortifying crackle of the _small lightnings_ arcing between his horns. He swallowed around the return of the lump in his throat and lowered his scowling focus to the chessboard again. “Cullen Rutherford is . . . an admirable, honorable man and a brilliant, brave commander and tactician. I respect him greatly and value him more than I could ever truly convey. I would never— _never_ —do or say anything that might jeopardize our professional relationship. Or our friendship, such as it is. Those, too, I value more highly than . . . baseless hopes and unreciprocated mawkishness.”

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Silence, for almost a minute, during which Kaaras had to fight to find the courage to meet Dorian’s weighty, considering gaze. When he did, it was grave and knowing.

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“I see,” the other mage said, nodding slowly. “You genuinely believe your infatuation, adoration, and desire are not returned. You _truly_ think that you’re alone in your . . . hopes and mawkishness.”

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“Of course, I do. Because I _am_.” Kaaras sighed and sagged back into his seat, head bowed, shoulders slumped, and long hands dangling between his knees. “It surely can’t be otherwise, can it? I’d be the worst, most pathetic sort of fool for expecting the impossible to suddenly be possible. Expecting silly, moon-brained daydreams to suddenly manifest into full-blown reality!”

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Dorian huffed. “I would normally agree with that wounded cynicism of yours, my friend, but for the fact that _you’re_ the vanguard in fighting a war against the weakening of a literal _Veil between dreams and reality_.”

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“Between _nightmares_ and reality,” Kaaras corrected darkly, clenching his left hand around the phantom tingle-chill-ache of the Mark on his palm. Even so many miles from it, he could feel the dull, insistent, _tidal_ pull of the Breach on his very soul. And he could feel—in the back of his mind and on the back of his neck—the tug-burn-itch of the unsealed Rifts dotting Southern Thedas like gopher holes in a foundering field.

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For a few moments, Kaaras Adaar tugged and pulled—stubborn and helpless— _right back_. . . .

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Then he sighed and _let go_ , listening to the twin crackles of arcane energy and Fade-magic die down from the directions of horns and hand. He opened his eyes and his left hand just as the last of the green-gold energy and glow sank into silence. But, as ever, he could still faintly make out the Mark on his callused, pinkish-gray palm: a faint outline of pale in a roughly circular shape.

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“Anything is possible, Kaaras. Even love. If you _didn’t_ believe that, you wouldn’t be fighting this war. And the Inquisition wouldn’t be fighting it at your side and back, with everything we have,” Dorian said softly. When Kaaras glanced up at him, the Tevinter was smiling again, but with affection, rather than amusement. The pervasive chill that always followed moments of activity related to his Mark was leavened by the rush of warmth, appreciation, and fierce gratitude he felt for his best friend.

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“Yes, Dorian. Anything _is_ possible.” Kaaras managed a smile, but it quickly faltered. “However, possible and _probable_ are two very different beasts which should never be mistaken, one for the other.”

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“Oh, I quite agree, Inquisitor . . . but ah, my sweet, _earnest_ friend. You are never more endearing and enchanting than at moments like these,” Dorian murmured, chuckling once more, quiet and strangely surrendered. “You’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever known: strong and determined, full of righteous will and fire. You _care and believe_ in this world and the people on it so deeply, it takes my breath away even as it inspires me. Your faith in us all will change this world for the better—I don’t doubt that for a moment and never have. And so, it’s baffling to me that your faith in everything is almost exactly rivaled by a complete lack of faith in _yourself_. Rather, in your own worth as a person deserving of respect and adoration, _separate_ from being the chosen savior of this bloody-awful place. _You are more_ than that Mark on your hand and more than the spearhead whom the forces of goodness, order, and kitten-rescuing rally behind. Even without your various titles and mantles, you are quite wonderful. And _worthy_.”

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Gaping, Kaaras blushed and looked down at the chessboard yet again—away from Dorian’s bright, intent gray eyes and unspoken layers of laid-bare meaning—swallowing, swallowing, swallowing. “Dorian, I. . . .”

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“ _Worthy_ ,” Dorian reiterated, somber and adamant, his gaze as tangible and warm as firelight on Kaaras’ face. “I know I can’t make you see how equally besotted the Commander is with you, too—there are none so blind, after all—but I _will_ make you understand that even if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t be because you aren’t worthy. Nor because he’s not worthy. It would simply be a matter of tastes that don’t match and roads not taken, and all that rot. And even the complication of unrequited love would have no adverse effect on the esteem and regard in which you will always hold each other. Nor would it affect the bonds of friendship, respect, trust, and caring between you. I . . . can personally attest to the truth of such a conclusion. I hope.”

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Between Dorian’s steady gaze and his own blush, Kaaras’ face felt as if it was baking. He could only be grateful that this pavilion rarely saw direct sunlight, else his entire head might have burst into flames, by now. “Of course, you can, Dorian. You’re . . . the best friend I’ve ever had, y’know? I love and admire you endlessly, and I’m lucky to have you in my life. _Nothing_ will ever change that.”

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Kaaras dared to meet Dorian’s gaze and got a smile that was as warm as those eyes, and only a bit more brave-stoic. “That . . . is gratifying and surprisingly _not_ difficult to hear, all things considered. How odd . . . and reassuring.” That smile settled into a slight, but whimsical curve of mouth until Dorian scoffed and made a pouty moue. “Oh, but do listen to me go on, all syrupy and maudlin! You Free Marchers and your unadorned bluntness are dizzyingly disconcerting! Hmph! Such a terrible and _uncivilizing_ effect you’re having on your loyal disciple and devotee, Your Holiness!”

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“Yes . . . you _are_ my most sincere and indiscriminate adherent. Obviously, I’m your one, undisputed path to Andraste's Guidance, and the Maker’s Grace,” Kaaras intoned, deadpan and dry as he rolled his eyes. “But unadorned bluntness is more a trait of Starkhaven and Tantervale, than where I was raised in the Southern Marches.”

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“Tomayto, potayto.” Dorian sniffed and waved his hand. “Note, however, that the Free Marches are certainly more than close enough to bloody Ferelden—the Commander’s homeland—to swap sugar for salt! Between the two of you, that shared plainspokenness and decisiveness _should’ve_ seen you tumbling each other before the spring-thaw!”

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“If _tumbling_ was all I desired, perhaps it might have,” Kaaras allowed quietly, biting his lip and frowning down at his Marked palm. “If Cullen meant less to me than he does . . . a few tumbles to get him out of my system might’ve done, nicely. Assuming he’d not been opposed to said tumbling.”

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“That’s bloody safe to assume, you oblivious dolt,” Dorian muttered just a bit ruefully, and Kaaras chuckled without mirth.

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“Says you. But not _everyone_ is attracted to gangly, ginger giants with more freckles and horns than they know what to do with.”

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“Mm. Such tastes _are_ both rare and acquired, you have the right of that. Luckily for you, Commander Cullen exhibits _excellent_ taste in men. Or might, if he could ever manage to do more than stare longingly after the exceptionally delectable ones.” Dorian once more waved his right hand with his usual elegant dismissiveness—this time at Kaaras. But his eyes were more heated than warm, now, and Kaaras’ poor body suddenly didn’t know if it was coming or going . . . in damned-near every sense of the phrase. “But, it’s as I said: he, like you, has some silly, mystifying notions about his own worth, as well as a startling lack of courage because of those notions. And he, too, values your friendship and good opinion more than he values reaching for his most desperate hopes and dreams. He’ll _never_ approach you, Kaaras, not even if Andraste herself kicks him in the slats to get him going! So, if you want _my_ advice, dear Defender of Truth . . . act upon your profound and clearly unshakable affinity for the Commander. Before circumstance and time take the option out of even _your_ troll-sized hands.”

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“Shameless flatterer,” Kaaras muttered, snorting and reaching for his queen as if to go on the offensive. But it was an aborted and pointless gesture that left his still-chilled hand laying uselessly on the edge of board and table, and his queen unmoved in her strategically valuable square. “But even if, through some magic or miracle, my feelings were to be reciprocated . . . surely this would be the worst and most selfish time for such concerns to be given precedence! For the _Inquisitor and the Commander of the Inquisition_ , if for no one else!”

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“I . . . honestly cannot think of a _better_ time than now. Than _before_ time and times are _done_ , and none are left to mourn and remember them,” Dorian said plainly, as his warm and gentle right hand landed on Kaaras’ chilly-tingly left one. Kaaras was helpless to do anything but meet the other man’s still, storm-gray gaze.

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Dorian Pavus was the only one who'd never shied away from Kaaras’ Marked hand with either fear, discomfort, or religious awe. And he never would, which was one of many reasons why Kaaras loved and admired him.

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“There’s nothing selfish about falling in love, Kaaras. Objectively, it’s a rather deplorable state and sentiment, of course. But that doesn’t mitigate the ludicrous nobility of giving away one’s heart to a person one adores. There’s also nothing wrong with occasionally prioritizing and attending to the needs which nourish one’s spirit—kinship and companionship, a soft place to fall . . . devastatingly good sex.” Dorian waggled his brows three times, just a little, before laughing. “You deserve to have these things. They make this fight _worth fighting_ until whatever end. And you’re _lucky_ , in that your adoration is returned and _matched_ , so don’t let opportunity continue to pass you by. Don’t let the opinions of fools, or your own insecurities continue to hold you back. You _are_ worthy, my friend. Beyond worthy.”

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Humbled and shaken, Kaaras turned his hand over and clasped Dorian’s tightly, holding that gray gaze once more. As ever, when it was unhidden by amusement and snark, the depth of faith and constancy there was bolstering and fortifying.

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“If that’s true of me, then it’s also true of you. I’m not the only one who’s worthy, _Serah_ Pavus. _You_ deserve nothing less than the best of everything,” Kaaras said firmly, and Dorian grinned, wry and a little melancholy.

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“But of course, I do, Inquisitor! Few, indeed, deserve more than _I_! However, what one deserves and what one _gets_ are often mutually exclusive, in this parsimonious world.” Dorian snorted and stood, pulling his hand free of Kaaras’ with the sort of hesitant determination that said he’d rather not be pulling away at all. His fingertips lingered a bit as they brushed across Kaaras’ quiescent Mark and for a moment, he looked weary and downcast. But only for a moment. “At any rate, it’s once again time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s unexpectedly been that sort of an afternoon—it so frequently is, these days, I wot. Should you find yourself feeling the same and in need of commiserative company, I’ll . . . be at the _Herald’s Rest_ , I suppose. Swilling beer and putting up with The Iron Bull’s pathetic, ham-handed attempts to lure me into his bed again.”

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At Dorian’s aggrieved expression and twitching lips—his anticipatory distraction—Kaaras’ smirked, slow and amused. “Er . . . are his attempts ham-handed, _really_ , considering that this . . . whatever is between you two has been a standing engagement nearly every night for the past seven weeks? Including during that fortnight we sallied forth with the Bull’s Chargers and sealed every Fade-Rift between here and the Ferelden Hinterlands?” Waggling his own brows, he was certain his expression was as self-satisfied and smug as Dorian’s had ever been. The flush that colored Dorian’s evenly tanned complexion in response to said expression was priceless. “Yes, clearly The Bull’s efforts where _you’re_ concerned are clumsy at best and wasted at worst!”

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“Hmph! They certainly _are_. Well . . . the former, more than the latter, I’ll admit. It’s terribly providential for _The Bull_ that striking, strapping, _and_ lacking-in-subtlety are to my taste when it comes to Tal-Vashoth men. Or men in general, one supposes,” Dorian lamented, giving Kaaras an oblique, but rather waspish once-over. Then he heaved another sigh, both exasperated and eloquent. “Between that and my partiality to Fereldan beer, it’s no wonder I’m labeled a pariah by gentler societies!”

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With a huff, Dorian strode off toward the arcade, followed by Kaaras’ stifled guffaws. He paused, once he reached the sheltered walkway, gazing off in the direction Yvette had gone. Then, he turned the opposite way, which lead more directly to the _Herald’s Rest_ , and his . . . standing engagement with The Iron Bull.

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Grinning, Kaaras watched his friend until he was around a corner and out of sight. Finally, he looked down at the abandoned match-up, studied it for a few seconds, and shifted one of his grand clerics along its diagonal path.

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“Check again, _serah_ , in two moves,” he murmured affectionately, chuckling and sighing. “Literally _the worst_ at cheating.”

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Standing up once more—stretching and limbering as if to prepare for battle—he descended the three shallow steps out of the pavilion and paused when the good Earth was under his booted feet.

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He firmly told himself that any questions of worth and courage, and . . . reciprocation of tender feelings could and _should_ wait. At least until after Raleigh Samson was sojourning in the Abyss, followed quickly by Corypheus.

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In light of Thedas’ looming, near-certain destruction, silly hopes and dreams of romance should surely be shelved until a less precarious span of peaceful days lay ahead. . . .

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_Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar, the Herald of Andraste_ had far more pressing fish to fry than an as-yet-nonexistent courtship!

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Nonetheless, as he took himself off to meet with his Commander, there was a spring in his long, determined step. A smile crookedly curved his bitten lips, a flush blotted out the liberal sprays of freckles across his angular face, and occasional small—ice-blue—lightnings danced between his tall, copper-plated horns.

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# # #

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**_*Contents of note taken directly from Dragon Age: Inquisition._ **

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**Author's Note:**

> Powered most notably by: [my half-assed Shiny Toy Guns playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlp-TNYE4qQULzVKrgo2PDgLWWckV5uhx) and Audioslave’s entire discography.
> 
> [Tumble with me](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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